Carly Jepsen, not sounding right, 
demands her bright middle name. 

I, too, demanded 
my name be centered, seen 
in a warm limelight— 

from the closet of a new-school life, 
from the black box theater 
of a one-nothing show, 
a new state of the mind song played. 

In my 11th grade acting class 
I knew the minefield method, 
the need to bury myself— 

to escape into the role, acting out 
when I could not enact my pride. 
So when a classmate insisted 
to play a new pop delight, 
right then I resisted— 

as Carly sang, Hey, I just met you, 
while not knowing her 
myself. 

I denied my gendered joy 
as being schoolgirl crazy– 

as I called myself 
“Maybe” 
in scared quotes.